Thursday started early with Defense Against the Dark Arts at 9 am. While on a ten minute break, Harry confided in his friends about what happened the previous evening. He showed Hermione and Ron the pendant, much to Hermione's dismay and Ron's intrigue.
"Cool!" Ron exclaimed.
"Not cool," Hermione corrected, "With everything Harry's been through, you'd think he'd be more cautious."
"I am!" he defended himself, "That's why I avoided using it—even after seeing Malfoy was okay after."
"Who are you gonna talk to?" Ron asked, ignoring Hermione's aversion towards the object.
"I need to talk to Dumbledore."
Hermione suggested talking to one of his portraits instead, but that didn't convince Harry. He explained how it wasn't the same—it didn't feel like talking to the real Dumbledore.
"I just need someone to keep watch and cover for me while I'm Petrified," Harry said, hoping either of his closest friends would be available to help him.
Hermione shook her head disapprovingly, "I have ghoul studies after this, so I can't."
Harry half expected that, so he turned to Ron, who grinned, "I have a free period until lunch."
Hermione was less enthused, returning to her desk in a huff of exasperation.
After class, Ron and Harry headed back to the Gryffindor boys dormitory. Harry unpinned the red drapes from his four-poster bed and sat down on the edge of it.
"Just don't let anyone see me. The pendant has a . . . disturbing effect," Harry warned.
"What happens?"
Harry tried to relay the truth in the smoothest way possible, "Well, my eyes are going to roll back into my head. . ."
"Freaky."
"Oh, and it might sound like I'm being strangled—prepare for that."
Ron nodded tensely, looking a little pale. He took a deep breath as Harry closed the curtains of his canopy all around him. He sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, making sure he wouldn't hit his head on the wooden bed rail when he knocked out. He took the pendant out of his hoodie pocket and unraveled the braided chain. It was the perfect length to fit freely around his head without snagging on his glasses.
It was only a second before the sand in the glass orb jumped and the pendant tightened dangerously around his neck. He pried at the gold chain links for fear of it snapping his windpipe. The room started to spin as he fought for his life.
Draco didn't mention how much it really felt like dying.
His vision went black as—he could only imagine—his irises disappeared behind his eyelids and darkness enveloped him.
Then there was light—a white light like hope at the end of a tunnel. It was King's Cross.
A figure in silver robes waited by the train tracks. Harry walked forward, noticing how his steps felt weightless, free, and made no sound. He announced his presence by voice, "Hello, Professor."
Dumbledore turned around and stared into the eyes of the Boy Who Lived, now seemingly dead. There was a sadness in his acknowledgement.
He had planned on seeing Harry again, but not like this. Dumbledore often imagined their reunion—a wizened Harry returning to his side with endless stories of his travels and valiant endeavors.
But he was still so young. Dumbledore could not bear the sight.
"Harry. . ." he whispered, "you shouldn't be here, not for many, many years. . ."
"I'm still alive, Professor. I just needed to talk to you," Harry said frantically, assuring him that his company would be temporary. "So much has happened."
He told his mentor about the pendant belonging to Jarik Lowen and how it allowed the living into the realm of the dead. He told him about the Chamber and the new secrets they discovered, the untouched abode of Salazar Slytherin, the portraits, their Animagi journey and finding Experiments of the Sullen Wizard. He used the word "we" when describing it all.
Dumbledore inquired about what he meant by that. "Are you referring to Weasley and Granger?"
Harry shook his head. "Actually," he said, "Draco Malfoy is trying to get rid of the Dark Mark, and I'm helping him."
Dumbledore stared off into the distance in recollection of how he died. Harry patiently awaited his wisdom, as he had missed it dearly.
"So unforgivable . . . to force one's own child to throw away their future for personal gain. It's despicable, don't you think?" Dumbledore opined, breathily, "A family without love is no family at all."
"He doesn't speak to them anymore," Harry said awkwardly.
"Of course not. I'm sure he finds it difficult. . ." Dumbledore raspily drawled, "Every child deserves the love of a parent, but not every parent deserves the love of their child."
Harry fidgeted with the bracelet Draco had gifted him. He almost forgot he was wearing it. He refused to think about the fact that he never took it off. The iron beads were cold.
He avowed to Dumbledore, "I never would've guessed we'd be able to not hate each other. I think I saw him as my enemy, when I was younger."
Dumbledore grinned expectantly, "And now?"
"I realize he never was. My enemy was and has always been Voldemort. Draco and I are rivals, but we're not enemies."
Dumbledore grinned proudly at his pupil, "You've grown up, Harry."
"We all have."
Dumbledore nodded serenely, at peace. "I don't know if he would care to hear from me . . . but be sure to tell him that I'm proud of him—for finding the courage . . . to finally make the right choices."
"I will." Harry agreed, "You have my word."
And then the winds of closure rolled in, like a wave of relief washing over a trampled shore, reverting the sands to their original state before humanity disturbed them. Harry felt renewed—reborn.
"And promise me another thing, Harry," Dumbledore croaked.
"What?"
"That next time I see you at King's Cross, you'll look gray, withered, and almost as old as me," Dumbledore disclosed, chortling with a low rumble.
Harry tittered, "I promise."
He half anticipated this happening—that Dumbledore wouldn't want him to use Lowen's pendant to visit again. The afterlife was no place for the living.
Harry's vision returned to him as he desperately gasped for air, the burn in his lungs slowly subsiding.
Ron parted the red drapes hanging from the canopy and greeted Harry gingerly, "You alright?"
Harry confirmed that he was still very much alive.
"This may be a bad time, but you're really late to Hooch's class," Ron reminded him, wincing.
Harry checked the time and swore; he thought an hour would be more than enough time to speak with Dumbledore, but he was sorely mistaken. He only spent five minutes in King's Cross, but he had no idea how time passed in the afterlife as opposed to reality, and he would pay handsomely for it.
Madam Hooch scolded him relentlessly for tardiness and gave him Saturday detention as punishment.
-x-
Nothing significant happened in Transfiguration class or afterward, since Harry and Ron had Quidditch practice. It was a lot harder for Harry to chase the Snitch as an adult, even with his new Stratomist broom. Harry was still limber, but the Snitch almost seemed to remember him, and it was more elusive than ever.
Harry was still fast—oh, was he fast—but it was getting difficult to make sudden stops with all the momentum he accumulated. Since the war, Ron had become an incredibly skilled Keeper and could hold his own. With Ginny as Chaser, it wasn't hard for them to pick up the slack caused by Gryffindor's new teammates.
By a show of hands, the Gryffindor Quidditch team voted Ginny as team captain for the 1999 school year. Harry was comforted by this decision, as it meant he wouldn't have to fight with the team to listen to him anymore. Ginny didn't seem to have a problem getting their attention, and he felt reassured that they would take home the Quidditch Cup, with her in charge.
Harry climbed the sky on his broom, flying as high as it would let him, to look at the Quidditch field—small as a speck below him. Way up high, it was quiet. It was peaceful, and the view was magnificent. The air's gentle chill felt refreshing on his face. He breathed in the freedom of it all before returning to the commotion erupting at much lower altitudes.
Harry told his friends about the new Quidditch captain at dinner, along with details about his visit with Dumbledore. They were far more interested in—and Hermione, appalled by—the fact that he traversed life and death simply to speak with his deceased mentor.
"He told me not to come back any time soon," Harry concluded softly.
Hermione looked to Ron as if he owed her money, as if she had just won a bet where she predicted such a thing happening.
Ron asked Harry what the afterlife looked like, and Hermione groaned, upset that Harry would carelessly toy with something that could feasibly be linked to dark magic. That's what she always said, though.
She assumed the Deathly Hallows were evil because they challenged her strictly logical view of the world where an afterlife did not exist.
Harry ignored her vexation and answered Ron, "It looked like King's Cross, but it was empty and veiled in light."
"And probably cleaner," Ron chuckled.
Harry relayed his experience with uncertainty, "I haven't asked Draco what his afterlife looked like, though. It might look different depending on who sees it."
"Like the Mirror of Erised!" Ron offered enthusiastically.
"Or a boggart," Hermione said sourly, "Mortals aren't meant to see things like that, Harry."
"Maybe not," He shrugged, "but I'm glad I did."
Harry debriefed Ron on what he and Draco discovered in the Chamber: the Flooless Floo and the secret manor where they found Jarik Lowen's pendant.
"Wicked!" Ron exclaimed.
Hermione only reprimanded Harry for his stunt in the ancient runes classroom, though it was with much less fire than when she expressed her disapproval of using Lowen's pendant.
Though Harry and Draco using the Flooless Floo for mischief was indeed disruptive, it didn't bother her as much as hearing her best friend had potentially risked his life again. She complained about Draco, too, "And here I was thinking he could be a good academic influence on you!"
Harry reminded her that he can get in trouble on his own, just fine, without Draco's help. "I'm gonna teach him the Patronus charm," he finally announced.
Ron nearly choked on his lamb, "Why on Earth would you do that for?"
Harry explained that their exploration of Salazar Slytherin's secret lodging was cut short by a Dementor. Ron quipped something about it being just another Wednesday for Harry.
Hermione was more captivated by the existence of Slytherin's sequestered manor and couldn't believe that such a structure was still standing, a thousand years after the Middle Ages. Harry assured her that it certainly looked the part.
Hermione asked if Draco would be going with him to the Chamber again tonight, just to be thorough and not assume, even though that had been the routine for the past week. Ron tried not to vomit at the fact that Hermione referred to Draco by his first name.
Harry nodded, ignoring Ron's theatrics, "But we're just working on the potions assignment. Promise."
But Hermione was not convinced they'd be able to stay out of trouble.
Harry passed countless ogling eyes on his way to the Chamber until he reached the lifeless second floor, where he found solitude. He stumbled upon Draco talking to Myrtle inside of the empty lavatory.
"I just think it's a little funny. . ."
"What's funny?" Harry asked. Draco whipped around with pink on his pale cheeks. Myrtle squealed with laughter.
Draco straightened his blazer and spoke with his chin inclined, "Nothing—just small talk."
Harry ignored his odd behavior and did not press further, as they had more important things to do.
-x-
"Arresto Momentum!" Draco spelled, catching both him and Harry in midair. Despite the slowing spell, Harry managed to land wrong on his ankle, anyway. He limped slightly behind Draco into the library.
"I think we need to start planning for our potion." Draco brainstormed, "We can get a couple of the ingredients from Slughorn. I think you should owl him, though. He's more likely to trust you with some of the more hard-to-find ingredients from his personal stores."
Harry slumped into a plush green chair and retrieved a quill and inkwell from his bag, as well as a slip of parchment. "Like what?"
"One bezoar and two Ashwinder eggs."
Harry wrote the ingredients down, making a mental note to owl Slughorn later.
Draco lowered his voice, "Others, we'll have to find."
"Which are . . . ?"
Draco removed a folded up slip of parchment from his pocket to read from: "Thestral hair, unicorn blood, which I already got—you're welcome. We have Honeywater and Basilisk scales, so we can cross that from the list."
Harry handed Draco the Fluxweed he picked on Wednesday, wrapped in a neat bundle, and the Slytherin scratched his quill assiduously over the ingredient on his list.
Harry gestured outside the tunnel, "Thestrals herd in the Dark Forest . . . what else?"
"Twelve grams of stalagmite rock from the Stump Cross caverns."
Harry raised a brow, "That's odd."
"Not really," Draco shrugged, "Those caves have existed for millennia. We can go to Muggle Yorkshire, this Saturday."
Harry awkwardly scratched the back of his neck before telling Draco the bad news. "Tomorrow?" he grimaced, "I can't."
Draco gave a wry smile, "You got detention, didn't you?"
Harry narrowed his eyes defensively, but Draco didn't let him make a rebuttal. "I should've bet my wand on it! I'm sad I wasn't there to witness it."
Harry absolutely did not like the idea of Draco being in the vicinity to taunt him while Madam Hooch gave him detention. It would've just ignited Harry's temper.
"Sunday, then," Draco said, a little delighted. "We can use magic, but we just can't be seen."
Harry knew that wouldn't be an issue if he remembered to bring his Invisibility Cloak. Draco directed the conversation to the development of a solid plan, "Can you Apparate?"
Harry nodded smally, not fully confident that his ability to Disapparate would be as refined as Draco's.
Harry got his Apparating license after the Battle of Hogwarts. He felt bothersome asking Hermione for a lift all the time. He wasn't wonderful at it, but at least he could Apparate to another place in one piece now. "Yeah," Harry replied, "but we'll still need to walk quite a ways to get beyond the school barrier. We can't Disapparate on school grounds."
Draco secretly kicked himself about the Vanishing Cabinet. It would've gotten them to Knockturn Alley, at least, if the Room of Requirement weren't containing a Fiendfyre in its quarters. He set up his miniature cauldron over one of the elegant fireplaces in the study. Draco charmed the flames so that they'd burn at a low temperature—as was called for in the recipe. He poured the Honeywater slowly and brought it to a simmer.
He already halved the ingredient amounts, since they didn't need a lot—Draco, alone, would be testing the potion. He added the Fluxweed and three Basilisk scales and stirred counterclockwise seven times with a glass rod. A cloud of turquoise-colored smoke billowed from the mixture.
"We should bring someone else as backup," Draco suggested, "just in case."
Harry lightened, "Deja!"
Draco staggered, the stirring rod nearly slipping from his fingers, "What? Why her?"
"Because she lives in North Yorkshire! She can help us navigate."
Draco persisted, "She's only a first year."
"But maybe she's been to Stump Cross. . ." Harry proposed, "and I can't be the only one there to make sure you aren't acting like a fool."
"I'm not a fool." Draco enunciated, returning to stir the cauldron again.
Harry shrugged mindlessly, hands in his pockets, "You are to Muggles."
Draco was displeased but knew his ignorance of the Muggle world was almost as vast as his academic knowledge of the wizarding world.
He finally agreed to invite Deja when Harry asked him about what certain Muggle traffic signals meant, as knowing a red light from a green light meant the difference between safety and being hit by a truck.
"Fine, we'll invite Deja." Draco relented, putting down the stirring rod with a clink.
Harry took Jarik Lowen's pendant from his hoodie pocket and handed it back to him. "I spoke with Dumbledore. . ."
"And?"
"And . . . I don't plan on going back," Harry winced with a slight smile. Draco accepted the pendant and went to store it in his bag, with a shrug that said "your loss," until Harry spoke again. "He said he was proud of you."
Draco fumbled with the weight of the pendant as if he had forgotten how gravity worked.
"Me?" inquired Draco, "Why?"
Harry quoted Dumbledore while trying to mimic his other-worldly voice. "For finding the courage . . . to finally make the right choices." Harry continued in his normal voice, "You know how he is—introspective and all. But he's right. You're standing up for what you believe in, even if it means putting a rift between you and your family. That's gotta count for something."
Draco turned away from his belongings and went to tend to the diminishing flames below the cauldron, not saying a word, though Harry sensed that he desperately wanted to.
"You okay?"
"My mother is very upset with me." Draco admitted, bitterly, "A 'rift' is putting it lightly."
Harry teased him as usual, drawling, "What did you do~?"
Harry's laugh was short-lived as Draco lowered his head in defeat. He asked again what was wrong, but Draco gave no reply.
Harry apologized, though he wasn't sure that his joke was to blame for Draco's sudden mood shift. He hoped that it would be enough of a gesture for Draco to be upfront with him. But still, he said nothing. Harry became annoyed with his sudden coldness, as Draco had been doing so well as of late without hiding behind his usual walls of ice.
Harry's voice echoed throughout the study, "Are we not friends?"
Draco stood up and turned with a wounded expression, not looking him in the eye.
"Well?" pestered Harry.
"We are! It's just—" Draco couldn't find the words, "I don't know how to tell you. . ."
Harry joked that unless he actually intended on cursing Hogwarts, the bar was low enough that he'd accept whatever Draco told him in earnest.
Draco shoved his slender hands into his blazer pockets. Withdrawing one, he retrieved a sheer drawstring bag—one with candy clacking around inside. It was filled with the Fizzychews he purchased in Hogsmeade not too long ago. He fished out a tablet and placed it on his tongue in a way that kept Harry from seeing what color it was, though he had an idea.
"I. . ." Draco swallowed nervously and said with a shaky voice, "I've been keeping a secret for a very long time."
Harry continued with mockery, ushering Draco to drop the ominous demeanor, "It can't possibly be as bad as you're making it seem."
This only upset Draco, though, as he began to pace nervously. Harry's mind ran wild with every possible heinous thing Draco could admit to: that he was lying this entire time, that Harry was but a pawn in a grand scheme of revenge, that Voldemort would somehow rise once more. Maybe Draco wasn't Draco at all and was just a dark wizard using Polyjuice to look like him. But that was ridiculous—they would've needed Draco alive to make the potions.
What if they were holding him captive somewhere for ransom?
All things considered, Draco might even confess that he intended to kidnap Harry for political ransom. He shook the intrusive thoughts from his head and pleaded for Draco to just get on with it.
"It's just hard for me to admit. I've never said it out loud before," Draco sighed, turning his pale face to the fire.
He extinguished the temperate flames with a water charm, breathed deeply and confessed, "My mother would want nothing more than for me to settle down in Wiltshire with a pureblooded witch, but half of that will never happen because I'm gay." There was a distinct sadness in Draco's eyes as he faced Harry, and it was unlike anything he had seen from him before.
Harry was primarily in shock from the suspense of it all. The actual reveal was tame and inconsequential when compared to the possibilities conjured by his imagination.
Harry said the first thing that came to his mind, not being particularly sensitive, "You had me worried it was something terrible!"
Draco didn't know how to react to this. Glassy tears started to collect in the recesses of his eyes. "You don't seem perturbed."
"What made you think I would be?" Harry was affronted, "I was more worried about you saying something really world-shattering."
Draco brushed off the slight offense he felt and asked what Harry meant before jumping to conclusions.
Harry racked his brain for another wacky hypothetical, "Like you bribed the Sorting Hat to put you in Slytherin or something—I don't know—just something crazy like that." Harry folded his arms, if only a little awkwardly.
"But you're not upset?" Draco asked.
"Of course not," Harry emphatically shrugged, as if the very idea were insulting, "It makes no difference to me."
Draco chuckled sadly, "I wish my mother felt that way. . ."
Harry asked for permission to insult Draco's mother, as he wasn't sure how he would react to familial criticism. Draco shrugged, taking a seat on the luxurious sofa, giving Harry the go-ahead.
"If Narcissa can lie to Voldemort but can't accept you, as her only son, for who you are then she's barking mad."
Draco shrugged with just the corner of his mouth. "I was hoping for something harsher, but I'll take it."
Harry smiled, "Can I ask a question?"
Draco nodded, sternly reminding Harry to keep it respectful—though he'd probably never turn down an opportunity to talk about himself.
"Of course, of course," Harry agreed, "I was just wondering if you remembered dating that Parkinson girl? Pansy? You went to the Yule Ball together."
Draco reminisced sheepishly, returning to his work station at the fireplace. "Oh, yeah. I wrote about her in my journals. I liked the attention she gave me, but not her. She was a lesson learned."
Draco got up to remove the now cooled cauldron from its hook, leaving it to sit on the mantle. He didn't seem timid anymore. "I wasn't really attracted to her—not like I was to. . ." Harry waited for Draco to finish his sentence, but he never did—just sneered, "As if I'd ever tell you, Potter. You couldn't keep a secret if your life depended on it!"
Harry knew he was just deflecting, but it still cut deeper than he was comfortable with. After all, he had let slip to Hermione and Ron that Draco was much farther along in his Animagus transformation than he let on.
Draco didn't tell Harry about how much he appreciated his discretion when it came to things more important than petty school matters. Not disclosing to Deja the role he truly played in the war was a sign, to Draco, that Harry would be able to handle more sensitive information—much like what he had just revealed.
"I'm sorry," Harry finally said, "For telling Hermione and Ron about your Animagus progress..."
Draco was unaffected, securing a stone lid to his cauldron in order to protect the potion from outside elements. He said he didn't care—his same old response of "it doesn't matter," even though it absolutely did. It mattered to Harry.
"Hermione knows," Draco divulged, "about me."
Harry didn't know what to say. He was glad to have one of his friends to talk to for guidance, but he was taken aback by the fact that Hermione willingly kept a secret for the wizard that tormented her as a child.
Draco continued innocently, "I told her in the letter." Suddenly, a lot of confusing things started to make sense.
"That's why she cried. . ."
"Granger cried?"
Harry joked that he didn't expect to see such a sight either, although Hermione was certainly not against crying in front of people—but Draco understood. Hermione had the heart of a warrior and the mind of a scholar.
"I promise not to tell anyone except Hermione. . ." Harry stated sincerely, "You have my word."
He held out his hand diligently, waiting. Draco brushed off the weird sense of Jamais Vu which caused him to shiver and valiantly shook his hand—once—and broke away.
Draco snickered, "I'll hold you to it, then."
-x-
Harry never got around to talking to Hermione—at least not specifically about Draco. None of the moments that came up felt right. He spent the rest of Thursday night catching up on assignments with Hermione's help after she returned from her astronomy class. She refused to do Harry's work for him, but she helped just by being there and making sure he stayed on task. He wrote his history essay with a red quill.
In the Gryffindor common room, it was cozy by the fire. Part of Harry really wanted to fall asleep. He waited until he was halfway done with his essay to beg Hermione for a break. She looked over what he had written and bobbed her head from side to side as if she were deciding between listening to the angel or demon on her shoulder—to let Harry procrastinate the rest or not, that was the question.
"Fine," she decided.
Harry woke up fully, taking the opportunity while the common room was vacant.
"Draco told me," he admitted, "about what he wrote in your letter."
Hermione sat down on a nearby footstool, at full attention. "And?"
"I'm happy he told me." Harry said plainly, "Though, it took him a while to get to the point."
Hermione sighed with relief. Harry was offended that she anticipated him having a worse reaction. Why would Draco's sexuality have anything to do with me? Harry thought.
"I'm worried he'll be bullied if people find out," Hermione said sadly. "That's why he needs us to lean on."
"He would never admit to that."
Hermione wasn't sure what Harry was referring to, but both interpretations were true. Draco would never admit to being bullied or being in need of support from friends. His pride wouldn't allow it. This was one of the most prevalent reasons to keep Draco's secret under wraps. As his friends, Harry and Hermione had to do everything in their power to make sure they were the only ones to know about it.
Hermione told Harry to wait where he was as she ran upstairs towards the girl's dormitory. When she came back, she had a scroll in her hand.
"I think it's okay for you to read it, now," Hermione said vaguely.
Harry unrolled the long piece of parchment and illuminated the elegant script in the light of the fire:
To Hermione Granger,
I never expected things to end up the way they did, but there is no sense in denying it, now. I don't mean to make excuses or justify my past. I take full responsibility for everything I've done. I believed everything my parents told me about blood purity and lacked the courage to question it. It was despicable of me to call you such foul names, and I apologize for my callousness.
I hate the person I was, and it will always be something I feel shame about.
I realize now that my parents not only misplaced their faith in an oppressive cause but that they failed as parents to love and protect. I took the Dark Mark to save my father from You-Know-Who's punishment, but I'm currently researching a way to remove it. I had no idea what I was getting into at the time or what it would mean for my future, and I would do anything to take it back.
A lot of rumors about me have found their way around Hogwarts. People say that I'm a murderer, but I've never actually killed anyone. I don't have the stomach for it, and I never have. I paid greatly for that under the watch of You-Know-Who. I suppose I let people believe those lies about me so that I didn't have to confront how my past actions affected and still affect my peers. I apologize for my cowardice.
I've never told anyone why I pretended to not know it was Harry that night at the manor. I'm sure you know the one. I lied to my Aunt Bellatrix because I didn't want You-Know-Who to win. I lied because I wanted Harry to defeat Him. I saw so many people die, so many innocent lives lost. A future where the Dark Lord prevailed would've only meant more bloodshed and carnage. I couldn't cope with the idea of that future, so I pretended not to know. I wouldn't have been able to, had it not been for the jinx (I assume) you cast on his face. You're a brilliant witch, Hermione. I deeply apologize that I failed to recognize this fact in less dire circumstances, before something as terrible as the second Wizarding War.
I have since come to terms with more than my transgressions. I'm trying to find myself on my own terms. I've always treated my sexuality as a matter of "out of sight and out of mind," but I don't want to lie to myself anymore. I wrote to my mother about it, and now she refuses to speak with me. I now realize that her love was strictly conditional—on the basis that I carry on the bloodline, but none of that really matters to me. Isn't it more important to love someone genuinely than to love someone because they fit the preposterous standards of tradition?
I understand now how it feels to be looked down upon for something you can't change, and I am so sorry that I did that to you. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I couldn't live with myself any longer without trying to right my wrongs.
—DM
The post script said the same thing as in Ron's letter but about seeing Hermione in Transfiguration. Harry simply stared at the letter after reading it. He felt overwhelmed with catharsis as his eyes kept trailing over "I lied to my Aunt Bellatrix because I didn't want You-Know-Who to win."
He finally had an answer. Sure, Draco saw this act as cowardly, but it made Harry see him very differently. Without Draco's courage that night, Harry likely would have died—no Resurrection Stone to save him. Muggleborns and Muggles alike would have been tortured and murdered barbarically by Voldemort and his congregation of Death Eaters until pureblooded wizards were the only beings to remain. Maybe Draco didn't understand how that ounce of bravery made all the difference.
Harry gave Hermione back the letter, still taking it all in. All he said was "Wow."
"I've forgiven him, Harry," Hermione said, "but I don't know if the rest of the wizarding world is ready to."
There seemed to be something else on her mind, and Harry made her tell him with just a look.
"He wants to tell Ron." She sputtered, "I figured it would be best if we all met up at the Three Broomsticks, after your class with Hagrid. Can you pretend to be surprised?"
Harry agreed to the terms of sparing Ron's feelings about being the last person Draco entrusted with his confession. It was nothing personal—Ron just happened to be the wizard that Draco interacted with the least. Telling Harry was an ordeal on its own, but the Weasley family had more animosity toward the Malfoys than any wizarding family in history. Draco would certainly need help from Harry and Hermione to get over that hurdle.